Ralph's Demise
by Tamara Pratt
"Ralph was a loveable dog, when he wasn’t chasing cats, children, postmen and cars.”
I could hear my father in the lounge room comforting my younger brother, Robby. I peered around the corner and stood for a moment, observing them sitting on the sofa. Dad had his arm around Robby’s shoulder, and I could hear Robby’s muffled cries. Losing a pet at ten years of age was never easy.
I returned to the kitchen to make a sandwich, but through our thin fibro walls, I continued listening in on their conversation. Ralph was a part of our family, and his unfortunate and untimely death only days ago was still very real for us.
“Ralph had a place in this family like all members,” Dad continued. “It was a shame that he had to spend the best part of his last few weeks on methadone.”
I could hear Robby’s cries stop mid-sniff, and I cringed at where my father was venturing with this story. It wasn’t unusual for Dad, with a few beers under his belt, to talk unabashedly to anyone, including Robby.
“What’s megaphone?” I heard Robby ask. Did it matter that he couldn’t pronounce the word? I was surprised my father could.
“Well, son,” Dad answered,” it’s a type of drug. For humans, it can be highly addictive, but in pets, it brings them relief from their pain and suffering.” As an afterthought he added, “Mind you, he did have six injections over the past month with that injury.” I could literally hear my father considering Ralph’s pet-specific case of drug addiction.
“Why did Ralph need megaphone?” Robby asked.
“He had a bad back, son. He was hit by a removal truck one day when he was crossing the road by the school playground.”
“Why was Ralph crossing the road all the way over there?” Robby seemed to do the mental calculations and was methodically thinking through Ralph’s actions. The school playground was three blocks away.
“Well, son,” Dad began. He was clearly revelling in this moment, where he could answer all the budding questions of his young boy and show him how much knowledge he really had. “He had a lady friend.”
Robby’s ears pricked up. I could physically see them as I stood in the hallway munching on my sandwich.
Dad registered Robby’s confusion, and added, “More like a local street flusie.”
I wanted to intervene at that point. I had no idea how Robby was going to process that last term from my father, and one I wish he had kept to himself.
I held back though, more in surprise, as Robby nodded his head in understanding and said “Ah, sort of like a girlfriend?”
“Yes, you could say that,” Dad concurred.
“So, why was Ralph visiting her?” Robby asked. I felt my jaw dropping, landing just centimetres before hitting the floor. Why was Robby encouraging this? Even at ten years of age he should know our father better.
“Well, son, he had dependants.”
“What are defendents?” I knew that mispronunciation was coming.
“Well, they are your children, son. Ralph had children—a lot of them. All to this lady friend of his and no doubt she had a few kids by another few men.”
I think my father took himself by surprise at that point. “I mean dogs,” he corrected. “She probably had a few pups from other boy dogs, as well as Ralph.” For a moment I could see my father stumbling. I had often seen him get himself into these predicaments when he tried to impart his worldly experiences on his children.
“So why do you think Ralph didn’t like Tabby?” Robby was clearly satisfied with that last response, and now wanted to analyse the relationships that were occurring in the house. Robby wasn’t old enough yet to know that dogs just hated cats. For everyone else, there was no explanation needed.
For the first time in this entire conversation, I thought my father actually answered Robby with something profound. “Sometimes we don’t get along with the ones that we live with.”
I wasn’t left astonished for too long, however. Within seconds he added,” And then they leave, and take everything.”
Robby slumped in the chair and pressed his head against my father’s chest. He had stopped crying completely now, and I was relieved.
Yet, I was still waiting for one more thing—my father’s punch line. It was inevitable. Since he had been raising us by himself for over four months, he tried very hard to end each conversation with a memorable and lasting message for us as we moved into the adult years. I knew this because he had told me himself every time.
And there it was. Once Robby had composed himself, shrugged off his sadness, Dad dropped it like an enormous dog bone in Robby’s lap.
“Son, even though Ralph was a loveable dog, there’s a message in the life and times of our family pet that you can take away as you grow into an adult. Watch out for women. They fight with you when they live with you, and they run around town with your mates. They’ll leave you for broke and you'll wind up addicted to some substance, if not dead.”
Robby was too young to realise that Dad had managed to weave another moral about his marriage into this sad experience of losing our pet dog. I was pleased at that. I might not be able to stop Dad constantly re-visiting his anger at our mother walking out, but time was on my side. Robby was still too young to truly understand the hurt and tragedy of the breakdown of our family.
Ironically, though, here was a distraction from it for Robby, even it if was in Ralph’s death.
